


Famous Black Greatcoat

by frek



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/F, Famous Blue Raincoat, Femlock, Leonard Cohen - Freeform, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary reflects on her relationships with Jane and Sherlock after Sherlock returns from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famous Black Greatcoat

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the song Famous Blue Raincoat by Leonard Cohen, but more specifically, the Tori Amos cover. The lyrics are exactly the same, but hearing it in her voice begged for this to be written by Mary and not a man. You can hear her cover [here](http://youtu.be/PMSbICWbjBw) and the official lyrics are posted on [Leonard Cohen's website](http://www.leonardcohen.com/us/music/songs-love-and-hate/famous-blue-raincoat).

Mary glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the seconds slowly tick their way to the next minute, the hour hand settling on the four just as the minute hand rested on the twelve. She glanced back at the email she was typing up, the blinking black cursor just waiting to jump across the screen as she began to type, the familiar letters of a familiar name appearing along the top of the email.

_Sherlock,_

She sighed as the cursor blinked impatiently beneath the name, waiting for the body of the email to form beneath her dancing fingers. Her eyes flitted away from the bright screen to the dark window ringed in Christmas lights glowing in various colors, casting their cheery hues on the snow already beginning to build against the windowsill. It was cold and dreary outside her colorful window, colder than she could remember it being back home. 

_Home_. Mary hadn't thought on it in a long time. Partly because her last memories of home were tinged with sadness and the kind of pain that can only be brought on by knowing she was never going to be enough for the woman she loved. Partly because it did her no good dwelling on the past. It _was_ colder here than at home, but only somewhat. Instead of rain, she had snow, a good deal more of it. It filled the streets and windows and muffled the music that would fill her new home from outside. The music faded this time of year, the cacophony of sound that she opened her window to in the summer nothing more than a memory in the winter. A memory that filled her ears like the sound of a violin once did.

_I'm writing you now just to see if you're better._

It was mostly true. Mary had wondered often about Sherlock since the night she had planned to go clean. She heard about her from time to time. Snippets from the news posted on Facebook walls and emailed to her from well meaning family members. None of them knew the history between them, the odd mixture of pain and relief that she felt when she thought about Sherlock. Memories of her played through Mary's mind, of the detective running through London hand in hand with Jane, her famous black greatcoat billowing behind her. 

Jane and Mary had been engaged when Sherlock had returned. They had been dating for more than two years at that time. She had known about Sherlock's death, about how it had torn Jane apart. There was always something there beneath the surface for Jane, like a wound barely covered by a scab. Mary had thought that she could take the trouble away on her own at first, until she learned the truth of it. Only Sherlock could heal it. She knew better than to try.

Sherlock had shown up on their doorstep, looking so many more years older than the pictures that Mary had known her from, yet still unmistakably the world famous detective that Jane had spoken fondly of when she could speak of her at all. Her hair was overlong, her cheeks hollow, the greatcoat that had graced her frame in so many photos still did, though it was torn and tattered. She had clearly fought a war to get there, one that Mary wasn't sure she would ever truly know the details of.

Jane had come from the back of the flat, asking who was at the door, the words dying in her throat as she caught sight of the woman standing on the other side of the threshold. The way that Jane had run to Sherlock and clung to her made it clear to Mary just what Sherlock had meant to her. It was that hole in her heart that Mary could never fill. Sherlock had taken Jane's hand then and they disappeared like thieves in the night. Mary had waited up for them, but Jane never came home that night. Or the night after. 

The next several weeks were a blur of activity and loneliness for Mary. Sherlock and Jane were inseparable, spending every available moment together, working on cases, catching up on the last few years. Whenever Mary tried to enter the conversation, she always felt as if she were intruding, though they both had tried to make her a part of it all. She just didn't have the history with Sherlock that Jane had and it showed. 

Time wore on and Sherlock had found her own place again, her visits to Jane becoming fewer and farther between. There were excuses and half formed promises when she did come over, but Mary knew that things had changed between them once again. Mary could see the traces of them in Jane's face, the hope when she heard the familiar knock on the door, the disappointment when Sherlock ran off once again without her on another adventure.

The last night Sherlock had come over she had taken Jane away on a case. They were out all night. Jane came home in the early hours of the morning, climbing into the bed beside Mary smelling of rain and cigarette smoke. She had tried to hide it, but Mary could tell that Jane was hurting. She curled up against Jane and wrapped herself around her, comforting her as best she could. Sherlock had left town the next morning.

Mary was shaken from her memory by the sound of movement somewhere behind her. She glanced up from her monitor and turned to see Jane stretching on the sofa, awake finally. She had arrived on Mary's doorstep earlier that day. They had spent several hours talking. Mostly about Sherlock. Jane had pulled out a dark curl of hair that she had kept in her wallet, familiar to Mary only because she watched those curls retreating down her hall so many times in those months. They reminisced and laughed, silence falling between them eventually, the thoughts building in their minds too heavy for words. 

Eventually Jane fell asleep. She had slept the whole afternoon and into the night. Mary hadn't the heart to wake her when she had been resting so peacefully, so she left her be. Now awake, Jane was stepping up behind Mary and leaning over her shoulder, squinting at the bright screen, reading the words filling the blank space.

"Tell Sherlock I said hello," Jane whispered, gripping Mary's shoulder for a moment before disappearing to the kitchen.

_She sends her regards._

Mary watched Jane walk away, her own heart heavy, though she knew Jane's wasn't any more. Not after her time with Sherlock. She still loved Jane, despite knowing that she wasn't hers anymore. That she was never hers. She had always been Sherlock's. Really, Mary knew, a part of her was glad Sherlock had come back when she had. She wasn't sure that she and Jane would have ever been able to make it as a couple, not with the woman that stood between them. And Mary couldn't believe the change see saw in Jane, the darkness and hurt that she had worn on her face like a shield had lifted the moment Sherlock had returned. To Mary's relief, it never came back. Mary supposed she should thank Sherlock for that.

Jane came back over from the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand. In her other she held the lock of hair that had inspired Mary to write the email in the first place. Mary reached up and took the mug from Jane to take a sip before handing it back, her fingers returning to the keyboard. She invited Sherlock over to visit in her own way, knowing that she would never stop her from coming back for Jane. Not when her heart so fully belonged to Sherlock, even after all these years apart. Mary felt Jane's hand on her shoulder once more and she instinctively reached her own hand up to cover hers. It was time for bed, to put these memories to rest.

_Sincerely, M. Morstan_


End file.
